


My Kingdom for a Horse

by Sharpiefan



Series: The Shakespeare Series [14]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Napoleonic Wars, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the autumn of 1811, Robbie is more determined than ever to get to full fitness and return to his regiment. It will take a lot of work...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a horse rider myself, therefore I apologise for any errors in procedure and terminology.

 It had taken a deal of work and a lot of sweat to manage it, but Robbie was on his feet by the end of the Season – still taking things carefully, and using a cane, but actually legitimately on _both_ feet, even with a limp he was working to overcome. The residual weakness in his right thigh would be with him for a long time, perhaps forever, so his doctor had said, and Robbie himself knew that if he could not regain the muscle in his leg, he would not be able to give the correct leg aids to a horse and that could mean life or death on the battlefield. In short, if he could not regain the muscle in his leg, he would be restricted in the work that he could do – even if he did not have to sell out, his chances of rejoining the Fourteenth were slim.

So he exercised as much as he could, pushing himself to the limits of his endurance every day – the bone was completely knitted together by now, he knew that; nothing hurt as it had when it was healing and he could stand without pain, though his leg cramped if he exercised too much. He was growing used to that, pushing himself daily so that his man had to knead the muscle every evening to get the cramp out.

“Tha'll kill thisel' one o' these days, sir,” Jackson informed him during one such session, his tough leathery hands firm (almost painful, in their own way) on Robbie's thigh as he kneaded the muscle. Robbie merely gritted his teeth. 

“I _need_ to get the strength back in it,” he managed, curling his hands into fists to displace some of the discomfort. “If we can get horses back into condition after they've been sick, surely I can get my leg back?”

It was not only the leg itself, of course; Robbie's fitness as a whole had suffered, so he did more than merely exercise the leg by walking. He took up fencing again, sparring against his man when there were no other opponents to be had. He walked, everywhere he could, with the promise that he would take a chair home should it get too much. (There were days he had to rest on the return home, but he never took the chair – it would be the easy way out and he was not one who ever did that lightly.)

His mother and sisters saw his determination, but it was only Lady Rotherham who really worried – neither Viola nor Olivia knew just how bad the injury had been, and they did not have a mother's instinct to see just _how_ hard Robbie was pushing himself. If he could _not_ overcome the acquired weakness, Lady Rotherham feared that her son would be cast into the depths of despair – he was more level in many ways than Olivia, but he still had some of that same temperament that was all lightness and happiness when things were good, but was sunk into the pits of gloom if things went wrong. Robbie's natural temperament was towards the optimistic, hopeful side of things, but his mental agility and quickness of thought meant that the despair could not be far away if he did not see the results he wanted. 

Walking was one thing, but what Robbie truly wanted was to ride again – to be able to spring into the saddle, to be able to trust his leg to provide the animal with the correct aids, to be able to grip with the knees even at the end of a long day.

The day when he finally felt fit enough to be able to borrow one of his father's horses for a ride round Rotherham Park was one he had half-thought he would never see. He was half-dreading it, in case it should make crystal clear to him that he would never be able to rejoin the army as a fighting officer, never return to his regiment, but he had worked over the preceding weeks. How he had worked!

It was a crisp, clear morning, with an early autumn chill that promised winter was not far off, when he came down to the stable block, trying not to betray his nervousness at this ultimate test. The only two men he could see were Jackson and his father's head groom, the man who had seen him on his first pony and taught him almost everything he knew about horses and horsemanship. He was grateful for their presence.

The nervousness he was feeling would communicate itself only too readily to the animal waiting for him by the mounting block already saddled – a covert hack rather than a full-blooded hunter, he was pleased to note, a horse with an easy-going temperament that was disinclined to be nappy or to start at unexpected noises.

He tightened his grip on the riding crop he was holding – a tool he had not employed for some years when riding, but one whose probable necessity right now he could not deny, and approached the horse calmly, from the side where he could be seen, reaching to pat its neck. He could not rush this, no matter how much he wished to get into the saddle. The animal deserved better, after all.

“Hello, old boy,” he said calmly, still stroking the gelding's neck. “You are a beauty, aren't you.” Gentle hands, allowing the animal to get to know him.

The horse whickered and blew into his hair. Robbie grinned, and returned the favour, blowing gently into the animal's nostrils.

The ritual was having more of an effect on Robbie than he had first thought it would; his own nervousness was beginning to dissipate, and he realised that more of it than he had thought was simple anxiety about getting back in the saddle. He had not thought he would have any issues with it, he had been pushing for this ever since he had regained lucidity after the skirmish. Apparently not, though his fall had in no way been the horse's fault; he had simply been too slow in kicking free of the stirrups and jumping clear, being thrown instead even as his charger died.

“Thee an' me, we'll fettle together reet well, aye?” he added, unconsciously slipping into the broad Yorkshire accent spoken by the stable hands. “Braithwaite, I'd like to mount without the block, if I can, please,” he added, turning to the groom who was holding the horse's head.

“Aye, if tha wishes, Master Robbie,” the older man said, a smile on his seamed face, as he turned to lead the horse forward a few steps to get him clear.

Robbie could not hide his own grin at the address. He had no doubt at all that he would be Master Robbie to Braithwaite even when he was married, visiting Rotherham Park with a wife and children in tow.

He was not going to attempt to spring into the saddle, not this first time since his return to England, and positioned himself to swing up smoothly, if he could. At least mounting meant that his left, uninjured, leg was the one doing the bulk of the work – leg and arms. And he had not lost much muscle in his arms thanks to the use of his crutches to get around, until recently.

Reins in the left hand, left foot in the stirrup, hands on the pommel and cantle of the saddle, and he propelled himself into the saddle in one smooth movement, easily clearing the horse's croup as he brought his right leg over to sit upright, sliding his right foot into the stirrup without any conscious thought.

“Once around the stable-yard, I think,” he said, looking down as Braithwaite stepped back. “And then up to the Beacon Hill.” That would be plenty for the first day, he thought, and he had very fond memories of the view of the house from Beacon Hill – it was where he had told Viola of his plan to join the Army in the first place, all those years ago.

He need not hold the reins in his left hand only today, although he was more used to having them that way than in both hands, but light hands either way were a habit with him. “Walk on,” he instructed the horse, as well as giving it the leg aids it was probably more used to. The horse obediently began to move, a gentle walk. Even at that pace, Robbie breathed out a sigh, feeling far more himself than he had in the nearly six months since that hillside in Portugal.

He was going to work up to a full day in the saddle, carefully, with lots of different exercises to get his leg used to working again – half-passes, figures-of-eight, trotting, galloping, cantering...

He was under no illusion that he would pay this evening for even trotting up the hill, but it would be worth it. He finished his circuit of the stable-yard and turned for the exit under the clock-tower, heading for the hill that overlooked the house.

He was right; the trot was painful by the time he reached the top of the hill and could look down over the vista of the house, its Palladian façade far more familiar than that of his father's London house.

He bit his lip and rubbed at his thigh, before seeing whether he could urge the horse into a canter down the gentle slope, breaking into a full gallop over the flat parkland moments later.

He dismounted, grateful beyond words at Jackson's presence when his leg refused his weight, nearly causing him to fall, were it not for his groom's supporting arm.

“Tha'll do thisel' a damage if tha ain't careful, sir,” the dragoon told him, concern writ large on his face even as he offered Robbie his cane again.

“I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes,” Robbie returned in answer, though he took the stick and did not refuse his man's help into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu!_ : The flying horse, the Pegasus, with nostrils of fire


	2. Chapter 2

 

As Robbie had thought, the day's ride (it had taken less than an hour all told) was making his leg cramp now worse than ever. He had no idea who had thought of it, but when he returned to his room, half-limping, half-carried, it was to find a bath standing ready for him. He could not have said by what miracle the water was hot, but there was certainly steam coming off it. He undressed and eased himself into the water, hissing a little at the heat of it, but felt the muscle slowly respond.

Such things as hot baths were luxuries he had not been able to enjoy in Spain, of course, even though the son of the Earl of Rotherham could take advantage of them in his father's house. He leaned back, letting the hot water ease the muscle as much as possible.

It had been the rising trot that had done it, of course. Robbie had never been able to abide bumping along seated in the saddle at the trot – even the best horseman must have an uncomfortable ride when seated at the trot, and it could not do very much for the health of the horse's back, either.

“Tha'll wear thysel' to rags if tha keeps this oop, sir,” Jackson said, coming in with a fresh jug of water.

“If I don't, though, I will have to sell out. This way, I only may have to, and that has to be a better than the definite, surely?” Robbie returned, rubbing his aching leg with his knuckles. “I would rather ride and suffer cramps for it than never ride again.”

His groom said nothing, simply pouring the jug over Robbie's head as he leaned forward.

“What was it tha said when tha coom back in, though, sir?” the older man asked after a moment.

Robbie wiped water from his face and eyes before replying. “It was from the play Henry the Fifth. _I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes_.” He looked up with a grin, running a hand through wet hair. “The greatest of playwrights talking about one of life's greatest pleasures – riding with a sure-footed horse under you.”

It was something that, in his darkest days, Robbie had thought he would never experience again. He still recalled Doctor Meredith's words, on the morning of Olivia's ball: “ _If I am to be honest, I doubt you will be likely to see a return to action any time soon – if ever. Consider, perhaps, that you have given all you can to your cause_.” He could still recall the black misery that had taken hold then, and hear the splash of brandy and the shattering crystal as he had thrown the glass of laudanum across the room in despair. Even the reassurance that he might ride again, given time, had not been a real promise with the certainty Robbie had desperately craved.

He could assure himself that he was pushing himself far harder than he would ever push his men, though he recognised the need not to push too hard, too fast – but it had already taken months of careful, if painful, exercise to get to this point. He was close, so close. If he could work up to spending a whole day in the saddle and still be able to direct the horse as well at the end of the day as he had at the outset, if the horse would respond to the leg, if he felt as secure in his seat riding with the reins in one hand by the end of the day, then he would know and he would be able to write with news of his recovery and give a definite date for his return. 'If'... such a small word, yet so much hinged on it.

He had made a small step towards the fulfilment of his dream today, but could not fool himself that there was not still a long way to go. But oh! it had felt so glorious to be mounted once more, to feel the power of the horse beneath him and the wind in his teeth as they galloped across the expanse of parkland toward the house. He had felt in that moment as though he could have ridden to the world's edge.

“I will try another hour tomorrow, riding school exercises only,” he said, accepting his man's help to stand and cross to the sofa at the foot of the bed for the daily ritual of having his wasted muscles kneaded to relieve the cramp. “Nothing more strenuous than a walk around the gardens on Sunday, though, I think. And there is our theatrical to plan, also.” That would be plenty to keep him busy, he was sure.

And of course, the hunting season was coming up – if he could keep up with the hunt for a day, he was reasonably sure he would be able to return to his regiment in Spain. Early November, therefore, was his target for full fitness – eight months after the initial injury.

He had other things to think of, too; the theatrical this year at which Lord Emerson would be present (Robbie was not sure precisely how many Pritchards would be coming, and there was Robert Vickery who had married into that family too, who might reasonably be expected to come if the other Pritchards did), as well as the Devenishes, Freyes and possibly even Monty, and therefore d'Aubin. He rather thought Olivia had invited one or two of her friends for the opening of the hunting season, as well. Given enough people, they might be able to stage a whole play, for once, though he suspected that Viola would still want to take the lead female role (and why should she not?).

It was mid-October by the time that Robbie's leg was strong enough to do everything he needed to, for the best part of the day. It was still cramping on him when he dismounted after such exertions, but when in the saddle, he could ignore that and still manage to get the horse to do everything he required, including supporting him during the rising trot. The absolute ultimate test would be the second day of the hunting season; to do everything on the second day that he had done on the first, and without the comfort of a hot bath after the first day (there was no point in getting used to such luxuries, for they would be unobtainable in Spain) would signal complete readiness to rejoin his regiment. He was very conscious of the time that he had been away, and the time it would take to replenish his personal kit – he needed a new pair of overalls to replace those the surgeon had had to cut off him in the hospital, for one thing, and a new stock of linen. He could not see that he would be back with them before the New Year, but he could finally see himself returning, and without the edge of caution that had tinged his hopes for the last few months – it was a distinct possibility now, rather than a mere hope.

It was the day after he had spent the whole day in the saddle for the first time, as his first in the last series of personal tests, that he came down to the stable-yard to find his father, also dressed for riding, and two horses ready saddled, his father's and one he had not seen before. This second animal was a beauty, a dark steel-grey colour Robbie recognised as being a blue roan, but with the features of a thoroughbred. He frowned momentarily, having expected to have his usual mount.

“Father?” he asked, pausing.

“Ah, there you are, Robbie,” the Earl said easily, looking up from stroking the nose of his own horse. “I understand that you are very nearly fit enough to return to active service by now.”

This observation did not seem to require a reply, but Robbie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Lord Rotherham indicated the other horse, whose bridle was being held by one of the stable-hands. “This is Valiant. I had intended to have him sent out to you before we heard of your injury, and then it seemed a little... thoughtless to do so. But now that you are fighting fit again, and returning to your regiment, it seems only right that you should have him now. He is rising five and Braithwaite has done his best to ensure that he has received all the correct training an officer's charger should have.”

Robbie blinked, for once lost for words. It took two years to train a charger properly – the horse needed to be taught not to be gun-shy, among many other things. It was a valuable gift indeed.

“That is... Papa, truly, that is... beyond words.” He had to swallow a sudden lump. By making a gift of a battle-trained charger, his father was losing a good five hundred or so guineas, the going rate for such an animal at somewhere like Tattersall's – not to mention the cost of the training and everything else.

“I have been in contact with your agents and obtained the pattern for your regimental tack from them, so I had a complete set made up for you.”

Robbie had been too stunned by the gift of the horse to notice its tack, and felt a fool as he saw that it was indeed to the correct pattern of the Fourteenth's, including the chain across the brow-band, an innovation he himself had introduced after seeing it employed by another regiment. He revised the cost of the gift upward by another thirty guineas or so – nearly a month's pay even for him.

“I... That is truly generous of you.” He swallowed the lump with determination. “Thank you, Father.”

Lord Rotherham laughed. “So, that is what I have to do in order to render you speechless, Robbie. I do not think your mother will believe me when I tell her I managed to render you lost for words – certainly I cannot remember such a thing happening before!”

Robbie ignored the jibe, approaching the animal as he would any horse he did not know. “Valiant, huh. I think it suits you, boy.”

Not just any horse, but one he could get to know properly before leaving for Spain. He would not have to rely on an animal he did not know in situations where horse and rider knowing each other could make all the difference – at least from the start. He'd left a horse out there, but Heaven only knew if he'd be able to get that animal back. To be able to go out with one horse whose training he knew and trusted to be solid – that was priceless.

He mounted easily, all the gruelling work now paying off, and followed his father out of the stable-yard into the park with a future that was suddenly as full of promise as it had been twelve years before. The final test of his fitness was only a fortnight or so away now, and he was looking forward to it – it would be the first time he had ridden out with a number of others since that fateful patrol, and he knew some of those people had thought he might never ride again.


End file.
